Quicksilver
by Scratch O'Brien
Summary: Mercury is a run of the mill newsie with a little sister to take care of. But then she gets caught up in the strike and must flee from her past, but in doing so she runs from her future, too.
1. Mercury

_Well, readers, I am back! Didja miss me? Heh. Well, here is the new-and-improved_ Quicksilver! _I am so happy to have it back up! As some of you will have noticed, I did some shameless self-promotion and messaged you telling you this chapter was up :). I'm terrible, I know. If you read the first version, you will also notice I have added to Mercury's character. _

_Fanfiction won't link to the song Mercury plays, but if you go to YouTube and search "Schumann violin" the video will be lower down on the page and is called "Schumann 1 sonata 1 movement". No, that is _not_ me playing._

_Well, here's the legal stuff:_

_I do not own _Newsies_. I do own all characters unfamiliar to the movie, unless otherwise noted. Please read and review... you can even review without an account!_

**-:-**

_All for one and one for all -- that is our motto, is it not?_

_from_ The Three Musketeers_, by Alexandre Dumas_

**-:-**

_July, 1899_

I woke up to the sight of wood above me. Not surprising, as I sleep on a bottom bunk. I didn't bother getting anyone else up; I just looked out the window to my right before closing it's curtains. Then I pulled my nightgown off over my head and dressed in my white blouse and dark green skirt. I put my nightgown on the peg that had held my blouse and skirt. Then I went to get my violin from under my and my little sister's bed.

No one ever touched my violin but me. Most were scared. I was a fighter, and I was also branded a lunatic, mostly for talking to feral cats -- worse, the feral cats responded. Not a very good combination for making friends.

Taking out the bow, I carefully applied rosin from the hard cake in it's own little crevice of the plush-lined case. Replacing the rosin, I took out my violin. Then I climbed out the window, carefully, and to the top of the roof, using the fire escape. I settled on the edge of the roof that faced the street.

Then I played Schumann Sonata No. 1, first movement.

I was greeted by the usual windows banging open by people (some belonging to our lodging house) who proceded to shout curses my direction in a colorful variety of languages, including Italian, German, French, something I think was Norwegian, and, of course, English.

But one old woman and her equally old husband stopped their morning walk to clap for me, this strange girl with her long hair whipping in the wind, and her skirt tossed about by the same force. Of course, I wasn't wearing stockings. Shame on me. Doubtless they missed the scars and fresh cuts both on my inner arms.

I finished, took my solemn bow, and went back inside to braid my hair, roll down my sleeves and wake up my little sister.

-:-

I sat down on the edge of the bed and shook my little sister, who slept next to me. Little Becca. Dark brown hair that was a shade off from black with an almost-curl, baby-fine and wispy fell in her eyes. She woke up from her deep toddler sleep, stood, and yawned before burying her little face into my shoulder and murmuring that she "wan more sweep." I sighed. Poor little kid. Where the baby fat of an average three-year old should be in her little face and hands there was none. I was lucky enough to have boots to put on her feet and a smock on her back. My own apparel was less than fashionable. We were alway poor, but somehow mother always managed to dress me in a blue dress to "set off my eyes." (She gave up on white lacey frocks as soon as I learned to play marbles in the streets with my friends and how fun mud wrestling is.) My eyes aren't really anything to gawk at though. Golly gee, another pair of blue eyes in Manhatten! Whoop-dee-dee. I liked Becca's sea-green eyes with a dark blue rim better. She'll be a pretty girl when she grows up.

If she grows up.

I told Becca no more sleep, then woke up those that had not already awoken from my violin playing: the twenty-odd other newsgirls of these Manhatten streets that slept in the same dormitory room as I did in the Newsgirls Lodging House (creative at naming, aren't they?). It was their turn to dress in their clothes from their own pegs. As soon as we were all dressed, teeth and faces clean, hair braided, and I had finally put on my black stockings and boots, we headed out to sell the papes. We passed by the nun cart, grabbed our bread and watery coffee with grounds in the brew, and headed off to the distribution office.

It was going to be a fine day.

Yes, that was a sarcasic comment.

Our daily routine was always the same; nothing changed but the headlines.We bought our papers, hawked our headlines, most girls being pretty enough to use their feminine wiles, but I had nothing but a loud voice, an imagination that had been encouraged as a young child, and a little sister named Becca, which was fine by me. Being ugly has it's advantages so long as you come to terms with your lack of beauty; no creepy strangers hitting on you, no guy wants to use you, and if you're ugly, you might as well be invisible.

Which is why I hear things. Lot's of things. I knew about Mush and Flips breaking up before Mush himself did. I know the headlines before everyone. Heck, I even know why Crutchy uses a crutch and that Blink doesn't really need an eyepatch.

I'm ugly. I'm invisible. I'm a newsie. I have a temper that risies as quicker than you can belive.

My name's Mercury. Mercury Pallas, of Manhatten. Was it because of my temper? How fast I run? I honestly don't know.

**-:-**

We all bought our papers at the office. There was a baby born with two heads, a trash fire on Ellis, and some sports scores, but I don't like to shout those out because the losing team's fans like to take their outrage out on us newsies. My closest newsie friends were Spades, Jones (yes, a girl) and Ella... Ella had black hair, black eyes, and a black heart. That girl was cold. Just... cold. Years on the streets had made her that way.

Same as all of us. But we all have each other... I think that's why we all are at least somewhat human. We just hadn't met Ella quick enough. She was the least human of us all.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

**-:-**

_Yes, quite a bit of it was the same; well, please review. If you don't have an account it will still let you review!_


	2. Boiled Newspapers

_Here is another one of my outrageously short chapters! I am feeling outrageously nice today, so I thought I would put up this chapter even with the very limited turnout of reviews; please rmember that you can review this story and not just the old one, guys :). Well, this is Scratch O'Brien, who still does not own _Newsies._ I do however own all other unfamiliar characters. I would like to note that I did change events around a little bit... and don't I feel_ POWERFUL!

-:-

_"Business is a combination of war and sport."_

_--Andre Maurois_

-:-

We shoved our way through the crowd of newsies to the Horace Greeley statue that stood right in front of the distribution office and gazed on what we correctly guessed was a fight.

Spades spoke first: "A dime says it's the Delancys and Kelly. Anyone?" None of us would bet against her, to her immense dissapointment. She should have been expecting it; we all knew there wasn't anyone else who Jack would be fighting this early in the morning. I took a tight hold of Becca's hand as we walked away the great gathering of riff raff, thankful that we had gotten our seventy papers before the fight started. Becca trotted along beside me, happily chattering away at me. She always said hellp to nearly everyone we met on the streets, and I'm sure my little sister being such a soicial butterfly contributed to the money in our pockets for food at the end of each day.

It truly is a good thing to have an adorable little sister like Becca when the headlines are bad for three weeks straight. During those times, you find yourself saving part of the half of a stale roll the nuns give you every morning so that at the end of the day you can draw that baked reminder of poverty out of your pocket to drop into a pot of boiling water alongside whoever else had the foresight to save some bread to contribute to the mix. When times are even harder, we substitue some or all of the bread with newspapers. When that happens, we soak the papers beforehand to get as much ink off as possible before we boil the stuff.

But by that time, we're almost too hungry to care if we had to eat the papers dry, much less if they had ink on them.

-:-

It really doesn't take much to sell papers.

To sell them well it does.

You have to like what you do. Can you imaging coughing, screaming, cheating, sprinting from the cops, living in alleyways, eating your leftover papers, and running back to the distribution office to do it all over again for as many editions as Pulitzer decides to print out to cover all the news, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, three hundread and sixty-five days a year , for as many years as you're cute enough?

If you can't take the heat, stay out of the kitchen.

But we can. And so we cough, scream, sprint, live in alleyways, eat our leftover papes, and run to the distribution office to do it all over again for as many editions as Pulitzer decides to print out to cover all the news, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, three hundread and sixty-five days a year , for as many years as we're cute enough.

And we stick together; in a town as tough as here, it's all you can do.

Unless you're beaten to death for your jacket first, that is.


	3. Unwilling Ambassador

_Hey, I'm here... with the third installment of_ Quicksilver_! Enjoy it, kiddos!_

_And tell me what you think about this: I have decided to write a_ Newsies/Cinderella _crossover spoof. Would you read it?_

_Disclaimer: I don't own _Newsies_, and I know Racetrack uses the word "okay" in this chapter. I was taking direct dialouge from the movie, and even though they didn't use that word back then I put it in to keep up with movie accuracy. Also, remember: I do not type out the New York accents phoenetically. Mercury has a New York accent, even though her dialouge doesn't seem fitting of a street kid. She does; that's the point: street kids aren't dumb. They use words like "eloquent" and "atrotious", too._

_Anyway, here is what you came for: Chapter three of _Quicksilver

-:-

_You can't run from trouble. There ain't no place that far._

_--Uncle Remus_

-:-

"Baby born with two heads!" I cried out. Twelve papers were sold on that.

"Trash fire burns down part of the city!" Well, Ellis Island was part of the city, right? And if the trash fire burned down part of Ellis Island, it burned down part of the city, however small. I sold several papes on that but as soon as the first person opened theirs I got Becca and myself to another corner and quick, before our deciet could be discovered.

Becca and I had sold all our papers, (both morning, afternoon, and evening edition) due to several made-up headlines. We bought supper from a stand and ate it on the home, Becca babbling happily through her chunk of brown bread. I nodded or mmhmm-ed every once in a while, not truly paying attention to what my dark-haired little sister was saying.We reached the Manhatten Home for Girls, and I traveled upstairs to the dormitory to read my book, Becca in tow.

I lost myself in _Oliver Twist_ that night. Oliver, the poor boy...

Which was the last thought I remember thinking, for I was soon asleep.

-:-

I awoke the next morning, and repeated what I did every morning: get dressed, wash up, play my violin on the rooftop, get Becca ready, braid my hair.

But the next events of that day were not so commonplace.

-:-

"They jacked up the price! Did you hear that, Jack, ten cents a hundred!" Kid Blink declared as one of the Delancy numbskulls mimicked him from the safety of a window. "It's bad enough that we gotta eat what we don't sell," he continued. "Now they jacked up the price! Can you belive that!?"

Becca looked up at me with questioning eyes, so I picked her up and told her it would all be alright. Of course, as I pulled down my left sleeve to hide my still-healing forearm, I knew it wouldn't be.

"This'll bust me... I'm barely making a living right now!" Skittery took a drag on his cigarette. It didn't calm him.

Boots continued the conversation by plainly stating "I'll be back sleeping on the streets." The casual way he said it sent a shiver down my spine.

"It don't make any sense," our attention turned to Mush. "All the money Pulitzer's making; why would he gouge us?" His eyes showed the hurt and betrayed feelings turning around in his skull.

""Cos he's a tightwad, that's why!" Racetrack kicked something on the ground. Chimes of agreement rang throughout, until Jack took charge.

"Pipe down, it's just a gag!" He walked up the steps to the distribution grate. He said something to Weasel, Weasel said something back. Jack tuned and walked back down the steps, a look of exasperation on his face.

"Why don't you ask Mr. Pulitzer?" the man chuckled.

Spades and Ella had caught up. Of course, we weren't allowed in on the conversation. Whatever it was, it was "men only" business, and "us wimmen" shouldn't go sticking our noses into it.

"They can't do this to me Jack," Blink's mumbled words were heard.

"They can do whatever they want. It's their stinkin' paper!" Racetrack muttered.

Boots put in another two bits as Jack sat down next to him. "It ain't fair! We got no rights at all."

Racetrack rolled his eyes and dazzled us with his gambling terminology. 'C'mon, it's a rigged deck. They got all the marbles, okay?"

"Jack, we've got no choice. So let's get our lousy papers while they still got some," Mush finalized as he turned to go up the steps.

With a push to Mush's chest, Jack once again took command of the situation: "No, nobody's goin' anywhere!"

Protests rang out as Jack defended himself. "We can't let them get away with this!"

"Clear out, clear out. Give 'im some room. give 'im some room! Let him think!" _Who is that?_

Blink handed Jack his cigarette as Becca squirmed and asked me to let her down. After a couple drags, Race asked "Jack? You done thinkin' yet?"

"Hey! World employees only on this side of the gate!"

Loud shouts of protest (to which I contributed my "If we're selling Pulitzer's papers, we are employees!" and Becca waved her little fist).

"Well, listen, one thing for sure: if we don't sell papes, nobody sells papes. Nobody comes through those gates til they put the price back where it was!" Jack turned his attention back to us.

"What do you mean, like a strike?" Our heads turned to some strange boy, that I was later to find out was David.

"Yeah, like a strike." I snorted._ Jack, you idiot_.

David immediately came down to eye level with the still sitting Jack. "Jack... I was just joking. We can't strike, we don't have a union!"

"Yeah, but... if we go on strike, then we are a union." _Well, I'll go for that_, I thought.

"No! We're just a bunch of angry kids with no money... maybe if we got every newsie in New York, but..."_ Humph. I don't like that kid..._

Enlightenment dawned in Jack's eyes. "Yeah, well we organize!" Jack gave David a friendly shove in the chest as he stood up. "Crutchy, you take for collection!"

"Swell!"

"We'll get all the newsies in New York together!"

"Jack, this isn't a joke!" The new boy was trying to attempt to reason with Jack. "You saw what happened to those trolley workers." _Good point._

"Well, that's another good idea. Any newsie don't join with us then we bust their heads like the trolley workers!" Most newsies cheered. As I hurrindly picked Becca up again to avoid being trampled by the overenthusiastic crowd of newsboys, I couldn't help thinking what the cops would do to us if we did resort to violence.

"Stop and think about this, Jack! You can't just rush everybody into this!" _True. Very true..._

Jack said some undiscernable things to David before he turned back to the masses: "Dave's right. Pulitzer and Hearst and all them other rich fellahs; I mean, they own this city. So do you really think a bunch of street rats like us can make any difference? The choice has gotta be yours!"

The next few comments I did not hear as I was in a conversation with Ella. "Think they're gonna let us help them?" she asked.

"Maybe, but only if they get it into their heads that girls aren't just there to look pretty." I cringed. I couldn't even do that... poor ugly me.

Jack's rousing speech (using David's words, of course) raised our newsies to action, filling them to the very soul with inspiration to fight for their rights. All our newsgirls were sucked into the strike, except Ella and myself. We stood on the outside edge of the crowd gathered around the statue. It's not that we didn't want to fight for our rights; it's that the boys wouldn't give us the full right to fight.

Of course, after it was decided that we needed ambassadors to be sent out to all the other buroughs, they decided that I was to be sent to Brooklyn along with Jack, David and Boots. Funny how those things work, but I left Becca in the capable hands of Ella and Spades to trudge along to the Brooklyn Bridge. I argued all along the way:

"Why did you need me, Jack? You have two other newsies and yourself. I don't think that I am going to make much of a difference."

"Mercury, you are one of the most eloquent-" here I snorted, to be reprimanded with a glare from Jack "-eloquent, responsible and driven newsies of Manhatten. Yes, we needed you here."

"What you really mean, Jack, is that I have read enough books to know a couple fancy words, if we get into a fight I can hold my own, and that I am persistent enough to annoy Conlon for you, that way if he gets angry it won't affect Manhatten's ties with Brooklyn."

"Mercury, now is really not the time for one of your conspiracy theory speeches. We need you here because of what I said."

David stared openmouthed at the two of us for a brief moment. Then he conentrated his gaze on me. "You're the crazy girl who plays her violin on the rooftop each morning." I cackled gleefully as Jack shot David a glare that almost singed _my_ eyebrows.

"You're right there, Davey-boy! Crazy as a loon I am!" Jack shot me one of those you're-not-helping looks, before he caught sight of my partially exposed right forearm. I quickly pulled my sleeve down as he sighed and shook his head. _I'm going to get what-for about this later,_ I thought.

-:-

I hate Brooklyn. I'm not scared of it, I hate it. The atmosphere is thick with suspicion and loathing. It's all very opressive. So I avoid Brooklyn as much as I can, which can be very difficult, because if a message needs to be relayed or some other such leader business, I'm usually the one sent because I look young enough and Irish enough to pass through Brooklyn unnoticed.

I wasn't lucky enough to evade this mission, though.

We had reached the docks, and I found myself ducking my head down, playing with the end of my long braid while following Jack's feet and trying to blend into the scenery, which is hard enough to do when you're a regular girl on Brooklyn's docks. If you're either very pretty (not my predicament) or very ugly (which is my problem) it's even harder.

"Where ya goin', _Kelly_?" The comment, with a special dose of venom on "Kelly", brought my eyes up from the ground. A tall, muscular and intimidating young man was giving the leader of our little posse a very unnerving sort of look.

Slowly, Jack bypassed the boy. Following his lead, I steeled my nerves and walked the rest of the way with my head held high, doing my best not to look side to side like one of my paranoid runaway cats.

Jack led us under some criss-crossed beams and ripped nets that formed a "wall" of a sort of open-roofed clubhouse. A grey cat lay bathing behind his ears on a crate. I allowed him to sniff my hand before I petted him.

"Mercury... not the cats!" Jack hissed.

"I'm only petting it!" I hadn't known my reputation for talking to cats had reached Brooklyn. Jack rolled his eyes and searched the horizon for Spot.

My attentions were drawn away from the purring cat as a sarcastic voice announced the presence of the exact person we came to see.

"Well if it ain't Jack be nimble, Jack be quick."

"I see you've moved up in the world, Spot. Got a river view and everything," Jack replied as he spit into his right hand and offered it to Spot for the common and oh-so-disgustingly-manly spit-shake.

"Heya, Boots; how's it rollin'?" Spot said, turning to Boots and myself.

Boots leaped over some sort of bench and offered Spot two stones. "Got a couple of real good shooters here."

"Yeah," Spot said, examining them both before choosing one to load his slingshot with. "So, Jacky-boy, I been hearin' things from little birds. Things from Harlem, Queens, all over. They been chirpin' in my ear. Jacky boy's newsies is playin' like they're goin on strike." _Shatter!_ went a glass beer bottle as the smooth, round stone hit it. I dodged the liquid as it rained down, but my sleeve was lightly spattered by the putrid stuff anyway. Walking around the bench, I joined my comrades. Conlon had noticed me, and I noticed the silent snicker in his eyes.

"Brought a girl to Brooklyn, Jacky-boy? Thought you knew better then that."

"Yeah, well--"

"You have atrocious grammar," I interuppted.

The blue-eyed boy turned to me, bemused. "Do I?"

"Yeah. You do."

"My apologies, miss," he said as he swept his hat off and mockingly bowed so low I had to step back so he wouldn't hit me.

"That was really unnecessary," I commented as he came back up. "Back to the topic at hand-"

"We're not playing; we are going on strike."_ I know they say better late than never, but good grief, man!_ David was such an idiot. But we were back on topic.

Only I caught the amusment in Spot's eyes as he turned his attention to David once more. "Oh Yeah? Yeah? What is this Jacky-boy, some kind of walkin' mouth?" he asked with bemused sneer that I have only ever seen him use.

"Yeah it's a mouth, but a mouth with a brain and if you got half of one you'll listen to what he's gotta say."

Spot said nothing and sat down on a crate, giving David an even, chilly stare. We all waited for him to start.

"Well, we started this strike, but we can't do it alone. So we've been talking to newsies all around the city--"

"Yeah. So they told me," the Brooklyn leader interuppted. "But what did they tell you?"

David was ready this time. "That they're waiting for Spot Conlon to join the strike; that you're the key. That Spot Conlon is the greatest and most respected newsie in all of New York, and probably everywhere else." He looked at us for approval, and Boots nodded his agreement. "And if Spot Conlon joins the strike, then they'll join, and we'll be unstoppable. So you gotta join... I mean, well, you gotta!"

Spot smirked as he stood up and pulled his cane out of his belt loop. "You're right Jack, brains. But I got brains too, and more than just half of one. How do I know you punks won't run the first time some goon comes at you with a club; how do I know you got what it takes to win?"

"How do we know you have what it takes to win?" Spot looked at me, suprised and angry. Jack glared at me, and I knew I would be lucky to come out of the inevitable screaming match we were to have later alive. "You're not going to join to help your newsies. That's doing them a disservice. Are you gonna be the one to shell out money to them when they can't make ends meet? David made this point a moment ago, but I think I'll say it again because it seems the bumblebee inside your skull where your brain is supposed to be was buzzing around so much you didn't hear him: if you join, the other buroughs will. No one will stop us, because they won't be able to. You already know Pulitzer and Hearst are a couple of skinflints. They'll be losing money in increasing increments each day, no matter how many scabs are out there selling for them.That is, if people do buy the _World_ or the _Journal_; once we get the public on our side, they may be writing more angry letters to those two tightwads than we do. If everyone sticks together, we can do it. And 'everyone' includes Brooklyn." Our eyes had been locked in a fiery glare that the both of us were too ornery to break since I started speaking. My impromptu speech had been accompanied by the wild gesticulations that accompanied next to all of my words, and as soon as my hands rested at my sides, Conlon tucked the knob of his cane under my chin and lifted my head. I jerked my head to the left, but my chin was caught in a firm grip that I could not escape.

The idiot chuckled. I glared daggers at him. He chuckled louder. So I glared poisened daggers. That didn't work either. "Didn't know he knew I like blue eyes," he murmered. I don't think anyone but me heard it, but maybe they weren't supposed to. "It's going to take more than a pair of eyes like hers to convince me you fellows have the guts, Jacky-boy," he said, turning to Jack but not taking his hand from my chin. His grip had loosened enough that I could jerk my head away and take a few steps back, giving him a venom gaze all they way. "You gotta show me." He turned. Jack laid his hand on my shoulder --well, more like gripped it-- and pulled me away from the scene.

I don't think I was ever happier to get away from Brooklyn.

-:-

_Happy holidays, kiddos! You know the drill: read, review, and tell a friend! If you don't have an account, you may still review._


	4. The Sullivans' Split

Author's Note: _I updated! Oh my gosh! YAY! There really is not much to say about this chapter. You should just read and review, then tell me what you think :) Then, if you haven't already, go read my other stories! The two most recently updated are Bye Bye, Birdie and Time Warp._

_I know that this is a rather short chapter, but after I wrote it, and revised it, and reworked some parts, I realized that this particular chapter would not have the same impact if I added another section on what happened the day after, or any of the many other options I thought of. I will leave it as is; I know it's short, but I think it's for the better._

Author's Note on the Edit and Replacement of this Chapter:_ I forgot to note that I put in some dialouge directly from the movie. Well, I did, and NONE OF IT BELONGS TO ME! It belongs to Disney._

Disclaimer: _I don't own _Newsies_. I do own any other unfamiliar characters unless otherwise noted, including Becca Pallas and Mercury Pallas a.k.a Meg- well, you're just gonna have to read the story, aren't you ;)_

xxx

_Go for it now. The future is promised to no one. _

_-- Wayne Dyer_

xxx

We returned to Manhattan in awkward silence. All any of us could think about was how we were going to have to tell the rest of the newsies. As it turns out, they brought it up themselves.

We found the newsies around the statue of Horace Greeley. The older ones were gambling or painting signs, and the younger ones were playing with wooden swords.

Race was the first to gather up the courage to ask what went wrong. "So, Jack, where's Spot?"

"He was concerned about us being serious. You imagine that?" Jack said.

Racetrack looked around him uneasily. I could already tell that they had been talking about their apprehension and doubts. I couldn't blame them; striking wasn't exactly safe back then, especially when you were no-name, working class orphans going up against members of the community that most respected and revered. "Well, Jack, maybe we ought to ease off a little," Racetrack started.

"Without Spot and the others, there ain't enough of us, Jack," Blink added.

Mush saw the looks on the faces of us Brooklyn ambassadors. "Maybe we're moving too soon. Maybe we ain't ready, you know?" he consoled.

"I definitely think we should forget about it for a little while," Skittery said. I glared at him. At least the other three had been delicate about it.

"Oh, do ya?" Jack said, fixing Skittery with a look so frightening I can't describe it.

"Yeah," Skittery replied, giving him the same look.

Race saw the fight brewing, too. "Yeah, I mean, without Brooklyn…"

"Spot was right, is this just a game to you guys?" Jack asked, exasperated.

"Fellas..." David started, "guys..."

"Just spit it out, Dave," Race said in a monotone.

"Have you heard the saying 'carpe diem'?" David asked.

Everyone was dead silent for a moment. "Yeah," I said quietly. "It means 'seize the day'."

"Exactly! Listen, I know it seems sudden, and dangerous... but we have to seize the day! If we don't take this opportunity-"

"Yeah!" Jack interrupted. I shook my head. He always had to be the center of attention. "Guys, we can't let the fat cats walk all over us! We have to be strong-"

"Yeah!" the newsies chorused.

"United!"

"Yeah!"

"Brothers!"

"Yeah!" the newsies yelled in unison. They broke out into deafening cheers.

"I guess the strike's still on," I muttered to Boots.

"No kiddin'," he said, and began cheering himself.

xxx

Jack made me go to the newboys lodging house for a visit to the infirmary. It was a chilly room that was rarely used, unless it was during the winter influenza season. I had already rolled up my sleeves, exposing my forearms. I sat on a stool as Jack poured a little carbolic acid into a small bowl of water. He dipped a cloth in the diluted disinfectant, took my right arm, and began to dab at the cuts.

"I really don't see why this is necessary. They're already--"

"It's necessary, Mercury," Jack replied. His tone was flat, which wasn't a good sign. That only happened when he was really angry and trying to hide it. "I don't understand why you keep doing this to your--"

"You don't try to understand, either." I didn't even _try_ to hide how mad I was.

He flinched. I was a little harsh. Alright, a lot harsh. I will be the first to admit it -- I'm very defensive.

"Megan..." he trailed off.

I looked up and glared at him at the mention of my Christian name. "What is it, _Francis_?"

Surprisingly, he didn't glare back at me. "You're my sister-"

"Half sister."

"Does it even matter!?" He threw the cloth back into the bowl of carbolic acid and water. "We're family, and that's what matters. I don't think you realize just how hard it is on me-" He stopped talking, and just shook his head. He picked up the cloth, wrung it out, and began cleaning the cuts on my left arm in silence. He inspected each cut for infection, and bandaged everything. As soon as he had finished, I rolled down my sleeves and buttoned the cuffs, making sure that there was no part of the bandages that could be seen.

I sat on my stool, waiting for Jack to get done cleaning up. He had already made it very clear that he was going to walk me home. He was probably going to search my possessions for a knife.

When he was done, he said "Let's go, Meg-"

"Mercury," I corrected flatly.

"Let's go then, Mercury," he said sadly.

I got off my stool and followed Fran- no, Jack- out the door.

xxx

Four years ago we were turned onto the streets by my drunkard father (J- Francis's stepfather). I was eleven; Frankie was thirteen. We were only half-siblings, sharing a common mother, but we looked a lot alike.

We survived in orphanages, until Frankie was arrested and sent to the refuge for stealing when he was fifteen. Since it was his first offense, he got out after two weeks for good behavior. That's about the time we learned about Rebecca, my half-sister, Frankie's stepsister. After Rebecca turned two, her mother came and dropped her off at the orphanage we were at, knowing Frankie and I were there.

We ran away from the orphanage and became newsies. We decided that it would be best if we pretended not to be a family. Francis "Frankie" Sullivan became Jack "Cowboy" Kelly, I, Megan Sullivan, Became Mercury Pallas, and Rebecca Sullivan became Becca Pallas.

Our name change not only made it harder for our fathers (Fran- Jacks' was on the lookout for him, too) to find us, but it also meant that Jack (who had ended up in the refuge a few more times before our change of identities) no longer had a criminal history.

"Jack, what if Snyder recognizes you in the papers?" I asked on the way home.

He shot a look my way. You could tell he didn't think about that. "Well, I'm older now... maybe he won't..."

I shook my head. "You still look almost exactly the same. A little taller, maybe, but you haven't changed much."

He swore under his breath as we reached the door to the girl's lodging house.

He opened the door for me. "Seeya later, Meg."

"Aren't you going to sear-"

"I'll trust you this time."

"Thanks-" I started. He turned and sauntered off before I could finish, but I said the rest of the sentence anyway. "...Frankie."

A heavy breeze started up. Tendrils of hair that had become loose from my braid blocked my view of the seventeen-year-old that had aged far beyond his years that was my half-brother. Memories of a childhood long since past all came rushing back to me. Fifteen years filled with nothing but proof that my older half-brother did indeed care about me, all begging me to run after my half- no, my brother.

All he had ever done to me was care. There was an occasional fight, but we fought because he cared. Mother always told me how when I was just a baby he would play with me. He would help me with my letters and math when I was old enough to learn them from our mother. He's soaked countless bullies in my name, and taught me how to beat them up myself. The charges against him that caused the judges to throw hm in the refuge? Stealing food, for myself and Becca.

Even today, cleaning and bandaging my cuts, all while I did nothing but act like an ungrateful child.

Just now, when he didn't invade my personal space and search my belongings for a knife. He wouldn't have found one, anyway. I'm a lot sneakier than that.

The lodging house was almost empty. I had access to the kitchen. The cook probably wasn't in there yet. I had more than enough time to grab a knife.

But I didn't.

Because even though Mercury Pallas couldn't care less about Jack Kelly, who was nothing but the self-centered leader of the Manhattan newsies, Megan Sullivan would go to the ends of the earth and back for Frankie Sullivan...

And on that day in 1899, not so very many years ago, I was more Megan Sullivan than I had been in four years.

xxx

_So did you like it? Did you hate it? Why? Drop me a review and tell me! Advanced critique is appreciated, but flamers are not!_


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